From The Pages of a Book
by Claret Thylacine
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is an internationally famous arthur who has grown sick of the main character in his best-selling novel: Alfred F. Jones. It seems with every updated installment fans only clamber for more, which is all fine and dandy since Arthur has just finished killing off Alfred... But then who shows up other than Alfred himself. Real. UKUS * Minor ChuNi FraJoan GerIta AusHun
1. Thanks, but no thanks

**Alright, this story is not originally my idea. It was a request on "Hetalia Kink Meme" asking for a story where Arthur is an internationally famous writer, and he decides to kill off the main character Alfred. Well… Alfred then comes to life and confronts Arthur…. And apparently shit goes down.**

**Read the description!**

* * *

_Alfred could see the light grow brighter, could see the dwindled masked faces hidden in the impossibly bright flames. They grew larger and larger, their horrid white faces stretching, and making blackened lips and cold black eyes sweep against each other's frames until they all together pulled together to make one large, horrid, UNEARTHLY-_

"Oh, no, no, no!"

A man looking to be maybe in his late twenties or early thirties heaved a great sigh while glaring at the alight computer screen and running one hand through his pale blond hair like he always did when he was frustrated. His other hand which had previously occupied the laptop's keyboard tapped the surface of the silver computer in a frustrated manner. The man's almost unnaturally bright chartreuse eyes glowed with an expression of utmost annoyance, almost lingering on anger.

This was not enough.

Arthur was, as anyone who knew him well fully understood, a man of perfection. The phrase _literally _is not meant to actually be used seriously in Mr. Kirkland's situation, as he was far from perfect. Everything from his hair to his clothes always went out of its way to muss itself up; Arthur simply did not know why, it was just something that was. He was exceedingly clumsy, and, dare he himself say it aloud for he had at one point convinced himself his condition was nothing more than a few (and only a few) uncontrollable blunders, possibly one of the most ungraceful creatures ever to walk this Earth, save for the large-footed pelican or perhaps the camel.

Mr. Kirkland also happened to possess an extremely grumpy, almost narcissistic attitude when speaking to strange men and women and rambling fans that shoved empty notebooks and black-inked pens up his nose when trying to get a closer look at the famous, world-renowned author. The one everyone knew about (who couldn't with the fortune he made). The same person that was expected to own that same kind, cheerful tone that made the people go wild like most internationally famous writers had custody of.

But, alas, it was not to be. Arthur was not an unkind man, oh, not in the least, but someone with such a standoffish attitude and ruffled clothing could never adopt a new personality. There are few things that fame cannot grant, and a different identity was one of them.

But, Arthur had soon discovered the moment he had held a pen, (an 1890 edition fountain utensil, if he recalled correctly) every aspect of deficiency could instantly be deafened to nothing in the world of writing. Nothing could be perfect in the real world, he already knew that and everything was probably better off flawed, anyway, but in any world he could dream up… anything could happen.

Everything was open to him, and all only with ink and paper.

He could do anything.

So he started to write. He had illustrated full worlds of his own, made his very own version of history, designed plots and twists, created characters with intricately designed layers and pasts. That was how the marvelous Alfred F. Jones had come to be.

Mr. Jones was a lowly peasant boy born toward the coasts of Western America, raised by no one and always running free. Well, technically he was actually "born" one day in Arthur's worn notebook during an 8th period math class, snuck from black ink and into a small leather book snuck underneath a desk. Dull classes always sent Arthur's imagination whirling, and he knew of no better way to transport those ideas into real life other than through authorization.

Alfred's utter determination to never give up and his bravery and daring had kept him alive, but his headstrong, cocky (but still slightly charming) attitude was also a bit of a drawback. He survived by posing as a helpless child, eager but small, and oh so sweet and fragile. Alfred was indeed a beggar, but he was a clever one at that.

And when the time called for it, he was also a thief.

But as poor Alfred matured into adulthood, he could no longer live alone on scraps of bread crumbs tossed from sympathetic young maidens and old souls. He had no education, so he was not quite the right fit to be a store owner or even a merchant with his reputation, and life grew hard. Well, harder, anyway. His existence had never exactly been a cakewalk.

One day, out of pure desperation, Alfred had attempted to sneak a very tempting-looking piece of pork from the satchel of an unsuspecting man, but he had been caught. The man threw him to the ground, and yelled and yelled at him 'till his throat was sore and bleeding, then he began furiously kicking the already bruised teenager into the ground. Alfred found he had quite sharp-ended boots.

Nobody had come to Alfred's rescue, (and the blonde hadn't expected help, anyway) and for days he could not move. He only lay in that same feeble position with his body sprawled on the mud-caked, bloody dirt ground.

When all seemed hopeless and Alfred was sure he was not longed for his already piteous life, somebody did come to his aid. An old woman who had actually turned out to be, well, a witch. Literally.

She was a very kind woman, but the fact still remained that 1907 wasn't the best time to be associated with such people. Even if witches were a thing of folklore in those times, accidents still happened, and Alfred was always right in the middle of them.

Thus, Alfred's tattered title of "peasant" had dissolved, and he was granted instead as witch hunter, even if he didn't actually hunt witches. He just did their dirty work for them, which led to quite a few…incidents.

At this point in the story, for instance, Alfred was currently granted the nasty deed of ridding one of that same witch's friend's mines. The friend would have done it herself, but apparently the caverns were riddled with poltergeists, and, as an unable elderly woman, (it seemed that all witches were crones) it was not in her ability to clean out spirits of the undead.

Letting out another sigh of frustration, Arthur closed his eyes. It was true that he loved writing and he loved his job, but he was never satisfied with these types of action scenes. Which, considering that the adventure genre was Arthur's specialty, wasn't saying much.

"Oh, damn it all," Arthur muttered under his breath, opening his eyes again. He would have to eventually finish this scene, anyway. Best to get it over with quickly.

So once again, the click-clack of typing could be heard around the room, no longer lingered with an author's irked mutters.

* * *

"Is it another problem with the book again, mon cher?" Francis asked, looking over towards an irked-looking Englishman sipping coffee while drinking his own handled cup of espresso. "If it's such a nuisance on your part, Arthur, why not quit the series? Take a break from writing?"

Arthur didn't answer for a moment, only continued jugging the smoldering mug determinately until the whole thing was emptied. He wiped his mouth with his brown long-sleeved jacket with glassy eyes that sharpened immediately, and looked over toward his long-time… friend.

Arthur frowned. "Yes, Francis, it's a problem with the book. It's always a problem with the book! I just can't get the plot right; everything is so out of order. Even with every rough draft and every smallest detail, something always manages to just bring the entire system crashing down. It's just… gah, it's just frustrating!

"Thanks for the suggestion of quitting, Francis," Arthur said irritably, returning to his already empty cappuccino, "But I can't do that. I need to at least finish with the series first. I'd never hear the end of it if I did stop."

Arthur's bushy eyebrows burrowed deeper into his face as his scowl became more pronounced as he added as an afterthought, "And don't call me "mon cher", you pervert. I'm not "your dear". Didn't you have plans with that woman? What was her name…. Joan?"

Francis grinned broadly and took another small sip from his cup. "Oh, come on, Arthur. You know I only do that to annoy you. Maybe if your reactions weren't so entertaining I'd stop.

"But," Francis chuckled, French accent becoming slightly more pronounced as he made a faux attempt at seduction, "unfortunately for you, they are. It's funny to get you riled up, and you're always so cute when you do. And, yes, I've arranged a date with Joan, but she (unlike some people) understands that I'm only joking, and finds it endearing.

"She's a very nice woman, and I'm treating her to dinner tomorrow night at "Le Meurice". It's a better night out than this place, anyway." Francis beckoned half-hazardly toward other corners of the coffee shop they had found while taking a casual stroll in the city. Yes, it was true that a fancy French diner was indeed much, much classier than an average café, but the restaurant they had taken occupation in now wasn't bad or rundown, either. In fact, it was actually quite a nice place, with bright, yellow sunshine streaming in through large cylinder windows that seemed to light up the room with beams of light. Around 15 or 20 small, three-seated wooden tables lay scattered in no particular pattern on the plain mahogany floor, most of which were occupied with cheery people either chatting with friends and drinking and eating beverages, or others simply reading the local newspaper or typing away on a laptop.

The scents of baked pasties and hot coffee, chocolate, and tea were sent into the air in faint spirals, giving the entire café a loving, warm smell. A small fireplace was lit in a corner, (even though it was the beginning of spring and winter had recently ended) which its heat was felt by everyone present. Every inch of the plain beryl wall was covered in beautifully painted abstract artwork, which only gave the large shop a homier, more creative feel to it.

Arthur nodded his head on one hand while staring, one eyebrow raised in a skeptical manner, at Francis. "Well, that's all good and well, Francis, but if you want to start a wholesome relationship now, I suggest you do it by restraining yourself from flirting with other people."

It was Francis's turn to scowl now.

"Ah, it's no use by now, is it?" the Frenchman shook his head, sending shoulder-length strands of blond hair flying around his high-cheek boned face. "You really can't take a joke, Arthur. I swear all this stress has finally cracked the workman: you. Fine, you can't quit the book, but why not take a little vacation? You wouldn't even have to leave your home; just maybe halt the series for a bit. It couldn't do any harm to loosen up."

Arthur actually seemed to consider that, as his bright eyes did grow glassy. He could take a break. Where was the harm in that? It wasn't like he'd be reprimanded for failure to write.

But then the image of himself sitting, hunched, over a computer screen came to mind. If he did postpone writing, it wasn't like that problem of stress would disappear in its entirety; it would only be halted. That same phrase, his own, echoed around Arthur's mind: Best to get it over with quickly.

And that was the truth, wasn't it? Better off for him.

"I already told you: no," Arthur sighed, gathering the bundle of clothes he had left on the top rail of the ebony wood chair he had sat in. He abruptly sat up too quickly, making the chair squeak against the clean wooden floor. "I need to finish this whole thing soon, and then I'll be able to "loosen up"." Arthur shrugged nonchalantly. "What can you do about it?"

Just as Arthur had fully gotten up to leave, Francis murmured softly under his breath, repeating what the other man had just said.

A light switch turned to "on" in Francis's mind.

"Wait, Arthur!" Francis shouted, making nearly everyone in the restaurant shoot him curious looks as he nearly spilled what little coffee was left in his mug in the act of scrambling toward Arthur while shoving on his own dark coat as he ran.

Francis was both relieved and annoyed as the British man stopped abruptly in his tracks just outside of the restaurant, and glanced back at him. Would it really be so difficult as to turn and walk just a few more steps toward him instead of just…staring back?

"I-I do have an idea!" Francis panted, hands clutching at his chest. Damnit. He needed to start working out more. He took one last gulp before turning his head upwards to stare at an expectant-looking Arthur.

"You don't want to continue the series, but you have to, right?" Arthur nodded. Francis's bright azure eyes grew brighter, practically glowing with a rare, excited gleam. "Well, then, why not cut out your own ending? Why not keep your ideas, but transfer them to the real world!"

Francis looked quite proud at his newfound idea, but Arthur gawked at the other man like he was insane. There was silence. But it was quickly broken by an irate Arthur.

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

The Frenchman's excited aura diminished slightly, and he rolled his eyes at the other's….dimness. "What do you mean "What am I talking about"? Isn't it obvious enough?" Arthur's stare did not dwindle in the slightest as he shook his head. Sighing over-dramatically, Francis dead-panned at the British man, and started saying in a very slow voice as though speaking with somebody very dull, "I _mean_ don't stop writing the book, but get out and make your own life experiences yourself! You say that you are having problems with creating new ideas-" At this Arthur looked indignant and muttered something about _knowing perfectly well with what he wanted to do with the series –"_than why not put your own life experiences into the book, and then it won't be a problem anymore!

"But in order to do that," Francis smirked victoriously, "You need to actually _create _experiences. The best illustrators base their works on real-life events, non?"

Arthur looked at Francis curiously once again, and the Frenchman could practically see the other's mind working. Arthur's eyes closed for a moment before opening again.

"So…you want me to get out in the world and record my own experiences?" Arthur asked. Beaming, Francis nodded excitedly and looked ready to dance until—

He heard laughter. Soft, amused, mocking laughter.

"You—you want me to...OH GOD!" His mirth became so pronounced that he seemed to be struggling to breathe. Arthur lowered his hand and laughed toward the ground, messy blonde hair flopping into his eyes. Finally, the Brit seemed to calm himself down, and, looking up to stare a startled-looking Francis in the face, he chuckled in between breaths, "I—I don't really think I could embark on a magical journey with witches and wizard, Francis." He shook slightly as another wheeze brought itself upon him. "But…thanks for the suggestion!"

At these last words, it all seemed to become too much for Arthur. If he were not a well-bred gentleman of high caliber, Arthur would have fallen to the ground and rolled on the sidewalk. He would have giggled himself silly and teared up if not for the current environment. So, instead, he settled for wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket and half-shaking his head at his friend -enemy's-compromise.

"Ah, good-bye Francis. I'll see you tomorrow. Another round of tea the next time, maybe?"

Giving a rare smile, (though it was fueled by amusement) Arthur turned from Francis and waved his hand in a jolly manner before departing down the road, putting his hood up before doing so and leaving a befuddled Frenchman in his wake.

* * *

It had been hours and hours since Arthur's encounter with Francis's _startling _new idea, and yet, it was all Arthur could think about. He didn't know why, but he felt like there was some sort of hidden clue in the other man's words, even though it was pretty obvious that there wasn't. Francis was not one for riddles, as he was generally very straightforward.

_You say that you are having problems with creating new ideas, than why not put your own life experiences in the book, and it won't be a problem anymore!_

In actuality, it wasn't a bad idea, and Arthur knew it. But how could you possibly transform years of school and writing education into fabulous paranormal happenings and witch hunts? It was just impossible! Improbable!

_Sheer brilliant if you had more of an imagination, you twit_, Arthur thought to himself.

Sighing, Arthur cast a bored glance down at his book "ノルウェイの森, _Noruwei no Mori", _and carelessly flipped through its clean white pages. He caught little strands of conversation and punch lines written throughout the story, though he payed little attention and could not seem to properly decipher the curved Kanji and Katakana and Hiragana.

His very good Japanese friend, Honda Kiku, (though he insisted Arthur call him "Kiku") had heard that Arthur had been studying the Japanese language for quite some time, (5 years, to be exact) and offered to help out.

Kiku had started out by simply reviewing basic principles and rules of Japanese, and, once he realized that Arthur had already mastered all the essentials, gave Arthur prints of his own books all the way from Japan. Kiku told him that since he was already at a complex enough level to read and illustrate the Japanese language, that these books would be good practice.

Norwegian Wood was the first book Kiku ever gave him. He still hadn't finished it, and that was over 5 months ago.

_Noruwei no Mori _was centered around a 37 year old man looking back on his life, on all the losses and deaths he's suffered. His tattered relationships, his love's own wishes-

Wait.

Death?

Kizuki's and Naoko's suicides…

That was it!

Wasting no time, Arthur leaped from the plushy red chair he had been relaxing in, and hurried toward his closed laptop. He carefully, but hurriedly pushed the computer's screen open and waited impatiently for that flicker of neon blue light to appear. When it did, Arthur typed in the code to unlock his dashboard.

The rough draft he had finished with for the day immediately popped up. He was at the point in the story where Alfred had defeated the lost souls and was just being congratulated by The Fair Maiden of Burlem with a celebratory drink…

But, little did Alfred know that, now, by declaration of Arthur, his gin was to be poisoned with hemlock. Just a bit of the serum would be enough to kill off his courageous protagonist. How's that for a plot twist?

And good riddance to him, anyway. God knows Arthur and probably the rest of the world was getting sick of Alfred; best to turn a new leaf and add a plot twist while at it.

_Alfred put his head back and shamelessly jugged the mug of drink, determined to drink to the last drop. Mrs. Orleans only watched on with a titled expression that almost could have been mistaken for amusement. The gin tasted sweet; sweeter than it should have been for such a usually sour type of alcohol. _

_And then many things happened at once._

_Choking and spluttering, Alfred's hands immediately threw themselves at his heaving chest as though he was in pain, and he smashed his head on the table, making silverware fly. The pain was overwhelming. It was blinding. It crept through his veins like some sort of poison; killing him and making him bleed from the inside. Mrs. Orleans did nothing to assist the poor young man, only watched with a cold glint in her icy eyes before Alfred looked the old hag in the eyes, and he knew without really knowing what had happened. _

_Before he was given the chance to speak, his now dim crystal-colored eyes rolled back into his head, and he gave one last spluttering choke. He was dead._

"Hah!" Arthur grinned, happier than he had been in a while. "Perfect!"

Of course; kill off the character that had been getting under his skin for a while now. Why had he not thought of it sooner?

Arthur was half-tempted to continue writing the story, to finish what he had started, but then Francis's words came back to him.

_Take a break._

And why the Hell not? Had he not earned it? Didn't he deserve to maybe relax a little after working tirelessly for so many months?

He did. He did earn it.

_Francis, you sly dog, thanks for the advance._

Grinning broadly and whistling in such a manner that would have both made anyone amused and frightened, Arthur skipped gleefully toward his library center, and switched the desk lamp back on. He picked up Norwegian Wood, and started to read.

* * *

**I have to admit that I **_**did**_** kind of slack off on Arthur's writing, but, eh. **

**French trans.**

**Mon cher- My dear**

**Non- No**


	2. His name was

**Gah, I'm so sorry that this second chapter took so long! It's just that, well, I'm a master at procrastination. I'd start on this chapter, but then my brain would force something else that I had to do at the front of my brain, and there'd only be a few hundred more words added to the story. Oh well. What's done is done. I'll try my best to prevent another wait like this, but I won't make any promises.**

**P.S. America and England meet in this chapter! Though their meeting doesn't actually go too well...hmm something tells me that this won't be a very happy "reunion." **

**That, and since I wrote the story so I already know what'll happen before it actually does...yeah...I'm omniscient.**

**Current word count: 3,545**

* * *

Arthur was awoken to the sound of polka music.

The upbeat, slightly obnoxious music had reached his ears before it did his sub-conscious; he didn't even have the chance to ignore the melody. In fact, Arthur barely recognized any song was playing at all until he heard an exceedingly loud hum to go along with it.

_Francis_, a small voice said at the back of Arthur's head. _It's got to be Francis, the twat. Only he'd be daft enough to play annoying Polish music so early in the effing morning._

At least, there was no light hitting his closed eyelids, so it must still be night.

Grumbling slightly to himself, Arthur forced himself to sit himself upright from his double-checker bed, only to be forced back down with a fit of large yawns. Arthur froze in that position, arms outstretched and back in a long bridge and eyes closed, until another loud hum resounded throughout the house, and he jumped from the bed.

The singing and music became continuously louder as Arthur trampled down the low-bent stairs leading to his living room; Arthur could smell something that strongly resembled bacon and eggs.

Of course. If it wasn't enough that Francis had to invade his home at the peaks of the morning, he had to insist upon poking fun at his cooking, too. That was the only reason Francis ever did anything charitable or kind to Arthur, to humiliate him.

Sometimes Arthur really considered getting new friends.

Pushing his feet extra hard into the last step, Arthur stomped into the main room, and shouted with all his might, "_FRANCIS_! You _bastard_, why the holy _hell_ are playing front polka at"—Arthur checked his watch—"_3 in the fucking morning_! What, did that French chick stand you up at the resteraunt, and you needed comfort? Huh? Is that it? Well, I won't have it! You could at least have the fucking common decency to…to…"

Arthur had just thrown himself into the kitchen where the polka music was still playing, but, unlike the song, the humming had abruptly stopped the moment Arthur started screaming.

Arthur froze, and was faced with what was possibly one of the oddest scenes he had ever played witness to.

There was a young, tall, blond man, a stranger, standing straight upright beside Arthur's kitchen stove, one hand on the handle of a pan, which played guest to five red sausages. A hard-boiled egg was stuffed in the man's mouth, like those apples that everyone always put in pig's mouths before eating their meal. Smoke wifted off of the blackening meat, its cook frozen in time.

Now, in any normal situation, Arthur would have instantly been outraged. He would have screamed, and chased any robber or thief or stranger away and called the police. Or queen Elizabeth, or Chuck Norris.

But the stranger's appearance stunned him into an absolute silence.

The intruder seemed to have come straight out of the 1900's period of America itself. His shirt was covered in so much muck and soot that it could've been any color, even purest white; toned muscles shown even through the thick shirt and black (at least, Arthur thought they were black) suspenders, showing obvious years of hard labor and work. The man had no shoes, only a pair of muddy socks filled with holes could be seen on his large feet.

Arthur's weary eyes came to stop sharply on the person's wide hands, the hands still touching his property, and he saw that gloves covered them. Though it was a bit odd for anyone to be sporting leather gloves in the springtime while in your, and not your home, cooking sausages, that was not what baffled Arthur even further.

No, unlike the rest of his body, the man's gloves were spotless. So clean that they appeared to be shining.

Not thinking correctly, Arthur whipped his head around frantically, eyes going wide, and snatched up the nearest sharp utensil he could grab hold of: a flat wooden cutting board. He pointed it at the other unknown man threateningly, hands clutched like death around the smooth surface of the kitchen tool. The intruder did not seem surprised, only grim, like one would be when forcing themselves to come out with a nasty confession.

"W-who are you?" Arthur said meekly, trying to muster any amount of strength into his voice. Damn. It was supposed to come out more like a hiss. Arthur swallowed thickly when the stranger did not answer him. His lime-colored eyes flashed and narrowed. "Answer me!"

The man blinked once stupidly, and hurriedly stuffed the hard-boiled egg he had left dangling in his mouth. Though his actions gave off a sense of an uncaring, even rougish attitude, something about the thief, or whatever he was, seemed to radiate embarrassment, like he really did have a sense of manners instead of the demeanor of a dirty pig. It was extremely hard to tell which was which by his clothes.

"I-I don't have a name," the man choked, coughing slightly and rubbing his throat where he had stuffed the boiled egg. "I mean, I do…but I don't. I guess…I used to have a name, but, people don't really refer to me anymore. Does that make sense?"

"No it bloody well doesn't, you thiefing twat!" Arthur hissed, raising the wooden plate above his head while the other man rested his gloved hand on the apparently still-hot stove and jumped up in shock and pain, muffling cries in his muddy arm while smothering his hand at the hem of his shirt in a futile attempt to soothe the pain. Arthur took this opportunity to run headlong at the stranger, and, huffing slightly with both exasperation and fear, threw the wooden plate at the ground uncaringly and grabbed the scruff of the man's unbelievably dirty shirt, and lifted him into the air and knocked him against the closest wall with a strength even he didn't know he possessed.

Arthur, through the excitement of thinking he was being robbed, had paid no real attention to the person's face, just his clothes and body, but now that he had pinned the man to the wall, Arthur was given the chance to stare into his swindler's face. He looked to be nothing especially remarkable; his features were common and appeared in different faces every now and then; he was, truthfully, the typical picture of a stereotypical jock. Blonde. Tan. Buff, from the looks of his muscular-looking frame.

Yet there was something…_off _about him. He had this certain air, kindly and approachable, that Arthur had yet to experience in another human being.

He had blue eyes, too; another classic appearance for the school jock. But no person Arthur had ever seen had ever had eyes like that. They were so bright, so incredibly beryl that Arthur was temporarily transfixed by them, and he could only stare dumbly into their depths before mentally shaking himself from their hypnotic gaze.

Growling deeply from his throat, Arthur tightened his hold on the other person and pushed them further up against the wall. The man did not fight back; he was almost completely reactionless, though he did occasionally squirm and those eyes held a shallow sort of apprehension in them. How strange. Arthur got the feeling that this man could have beat him up quite easily if he had wanted to, but yet he did nothing to defend himself; only waited there on his spot on the wall.

"I will give you one last chance, and this time you will get a much worse punishment than being pushed up against a wall," Arthur whispered, voice unusually low and threatening. "Now, one more time, _what is your name_?"

"Alright, alright, man!" the person shouted, now clearly becoming aggravated and even fearful, "I do have a name, yeah, but there's no way you'd believe me if I told you what it was! I swear! You'd think I was insane!"

"I don't give a damn what you think, you arse! _Tell me what your bleeding name is before I call the authorities! I already told you, I will give you worse pay than this—!"_

"Alfred…My name is…Alfred F. Jones!" the man cried, thrusting his hands up in a kind of act of surrender and turning his head as far away from Arthur as possible.

Arthur, who had been in the act of raising a single hand as if he intended to slap the man, stopped suddenly in mid-air.

The man (who was obviously _not_ Alfred F. Jones; How could he be? Jones was a fictional character, and Arthur's very own creation at that) flinched away from Arthur on instinct, but glared down in an almost resentful way at the green-eyed man holding him up against a wall. Arthur only stared. Alfred, both of the Alfreds, the one in his series and the one standing before him, had bluest of blue eyes; Arthur had illustrated it into his very writing. He had tanned skin from many days in the yellow sun. He had blonde hair.

He was very likeable, very pretty, too.

Somehow, Arthur got the very same impression that this man had those very same internal instincts as well as the original Alfred's face.

Dazed but recovering from a sudden shock, Arthur mentally slapped himself and forced his eyes to look straight into the fake Alfred's own teal ones. No. This was not some make believe character that had suddenly appeared out of thin air; this was a liar. A thief, a robber, and who knows what else. The man standing before him was not Alfred F. Jones.

"Liar," Arthur growled. Breathing heavily now from the strain of holding the bigger man up, Arthur took a shuddering breath, and let the other man fall to the ground with a heavy "thunk".

"You're lying, manky git," Arthur breathed, resting his hands on his knees and bending over slightly. His hands groped over the deep marble of the small island resting beside the stove, the closest place he could think of as to where he had dropped the wooden plate. "Tell the truth! Who are you really?!"

"I already told you who I am," the man shouted, clearly frustrated. "My name is Alfred F. Jones! I grew up in 1890 West America! I've lived my whole life traveling my country after the town, Huckleberry, threw me off of its streets! I spent my days assisting the people, just like a hero should, just like you wrote me to be!"

"And what proof do you have?" Arthur sneered, raising his hackles and trying to make himself as big as possible. "How can you show me that you just, what, popped straight out of nowhere and just _happened_ to come upon the author's home? Where did you come from? Why are you here? Is this someone's idea of some sick joke?!"

The man, who was, by his own standards, an entirely fictional character, jumped up suddenly from his slumped position on the floor. It was then that Arthur saw the gigantic puddle of watery mud that had been left in his wake. Disgusted, Arthur turned his gaze away from the dirty water and snapped his head toward the hallway that connected the kitchen and the living room, only to see patches of dark mud splattered all along the usually clean, formerly pristine furnishings of his home.

"Gah!" Arthur yelled, bouncing into the air and slipping on a particularly moist spot of what he hoped was mud and falling flat on his butt. "What have you done! There's dirt everywhere! How, why…I mean…"

"Hey, big bug," Alfred, no, the imposter, said loudly. He pulled something glowing blue from his pocket and glowered darkly at Arthur. "You see this thing here, right? Remember it? The witch's Magus? I assume you know perfectly well what the old crone was capable of, seeing as how you were the one who wrote her. Know what it does, or do you want to find out? This here is proof that I _am_ Alfred F. Jones! Where else could you possibly find such a thing?"

Wincing slightly from his fall, Arthur forced himself up and leaned against the nearby marble island. Alfred stood his ground and only glared, undaunted, as Arthur limped towards him, waggling a finger in the air.

"You could've easily bought that as a prop from some store! It wouldn't have taken much to find one!"

"But _this_ is the original one, I swear! Look, I bet if you just hold it up like this…that was supposed to have some sort of affect…"

The man put his tongue in between his teeth in concentration as he held the glowing bluish ball high up in the air; apparently sure that it would have some sort of affect. He muttered bits of nonsense under his breath that Arthur could not catch, and rubbed the glassy, smooth surface of the object at random.

Suddenly, a white aura completely surrounded the item, and its glow strengthened even further.

Looking urgent but excited, the man turned to look at Arthur again, and he started to say before being cut off by a resounding, echoing boom, "See! It's doing something; there'll probably be some sort of reaction any moment now—"

Then, out of nowhere, the glass orb began to shake in the man's thick-looking hands, and a straight, thick beam of clear light shot out of the object with impossible force, and blasted a hole straight through the living room wall.

"GYAHHH!" Arthur screamed, forgetting entirely about the supposed thief, and rushing over to the searing hole, which was emitting curling wisps of gray smoke. He stumbled over his feet while getting down on his knees and cautiously putting one hand on the cracked edges of what used to be his living room's wall. To his dimmed surprise, the surface of the blasted corners were ice cold. He had expected it to be sweltering.

"Wow…" a small voice gasped in his ear. Arthur, furious and shaking, whipped his blonde head around to see a certain open-mouthed, blue-eyed man. Though he looked more awestruck than nervous or surprised, he too was trembling slightly. "So that's what it does…Um…s-sorry…"

For a moment, Arthur was too stunned by the horror of being able to see through his sitting room to his library to even speak.

Then, he abruptly stood up and stared down at the cause of his home's destruction. The man glanced upwards, and smiled nervously.

"Er, uh, I guess now you don't have to think of anything new to put in the story…I guess…

"Well," the intruder said loudly, standing up as quickly as possible and backing away from Arthur, who's face was entirely unreadable and half-hidden by messy blonde locks. "I-I guess that maybe that was sufficient enough proof...? I mean…I really am Alfred, and, um, you see, I came here to ask if…if maybe you could—"

"Alfred," Arthur said in a completely emotionless voice; his tone brought shivers of dread up Alfred's spine, "if you are truly who you say you are, then I will ask you: why are you here?"

His completely cool demeanor drove Alfred to pure and utter shock; this was not the reaction he had been expecting. But, nevertheless, beneath his surprise and fear of what the English man would have done to him, he was intensely relieved.

"I…well, it's a bit complicated, you know? I mean, people don't just pop out of books anytime they please," Alfred babbled. Arthur only stared at him with that same piercing look. He made no visible reaction. Growing nervous again, Alfred coughed awkwardly, and tried to make himself seem as serious as possible. He looked straight into his creator's acute lime-colored eyes.

"I came here to ask you to spare me."

Alfred did not dare break his gaze from Arthurs'; he didn't want to trigger anything.

"You want me to spare you?" Arthur asked warily, eyes turning slightly confused. "What do you mean by that?"

Now, Alfred knew good and well that, before this encounter, at least, regular humans did not know the true value of a fictional character's life. They would go on and on about how people who didn't exist (and never could) could be exceptionally inspirational, but to them, that was really all a make-believe person was really good for.

However, that fact still did not keep Alfred from becoming slightly angry. He may not be a real person, but his life was of value, too.

Voice becoming stiff in his indignation, Alfred explained sourly, "You killed me off in the series, but you never finished off your final rough draft. I'm asking you to rethink the ending. I would prefer _not_ to die."

"Of course…I can find out where you came from later…if you'll wait here just a moment…"

"Wait, what!" Alfred spluttered, becoming wide-eyed and former hostility dissipating with new-found anxiety, "Where are you going? Why did you believe me so easily?"

Arthur stopped brashly in his tracks, and shifted his line of sight just so little so that he was looking not directly at Alfred, but at the wall behind him.

"I didn't believe you easily, you imbecile," he said in a monotone, "if I recall correctly, it took you blasting a hole in my home to persuade me differently"—Alfred blushed noticeably and shifted uncomfortably, but Arthur did not seem to notice—"but once you had…sufficient "proof," than by your brash, overly-cheery, duped personality, the answer was quite obvious. Now clean up this mess while I make a call. You have a lot of work to do."

Alfred nodded mutely, but then said urgently, "Wait, you mean "call someone?" You're going to tell the authorities about this? How well do you think that'd play out?"

Arthur sighed impatiently and started to head up the stairs quickly. "No, idiot. I'm not stupid enough to tell the police about this. How do you think the government would respond to this? There would be global panic. You'd be lying, strapped, to a laboratory table and dissected for "analysis." I can't have that happen to you yet."

Out of instinct and fear, Alfred clutched at his stomach and went pale. He suddenly felt queasy.

"Now, the brooms are in the closet left of where you're standing now. See that door? Yeah, I'd start by sweeping this mess up. Clear as much rubble away as you can, throw it in the trash, (the trash can is that big metal thing, by the way) but don't go outside to get rid of it. I'll be surprised if that crash you caused didn't wake half the neighborhood; we can't let anyone see you."

"Yes, sir!" Alfred shouted, and saluted, eyes starting to twinkle, though he did still seem to not be looking forward to clearing away his new caretaker's sitting room. He didn't seem too hell-bent on keeping one emotion before switching to the next. Before he could stop himself, Arthur smiled slightly at the child-like tone in Alfred's confident voice. The beam was gone as soon as it had come.

"Good." And with that, Arthur went stomping up the stairs.

Once Arthur had reached the top of the staircase, he glanced sharply over his shoulder to make sure Alfred could not see him, and went running as fast as he could down the wide hallway leading to his office. Panic was setting in to take the place of confusion and bewilderment.

How on earth was this possible?

Arthur burst through the door of his suite, and practically tripped over his bare feet whilst sprinting towards the black phone sitting, waiting patiently for its owner, on top of his mahogany wood desk.

Arthur's fingers clutched at the phone, and he feared he might have broken the surface of the device, for he had practically pounded the numbers to Francis's phone. The three second wait he had to endure for his friend to pick up the phone was nothing short of hell.

"bonjour? pourquoi m'appelez-vous?" A voice said weakly. Arthur waited expectantly, throat dry, for Francis to regain his sense of English back before speaking (for he was screaming apparent nonsense at Arthur that he suspected were curses and swears) .

Finally Francis said grumpily, in English, "Yes, _Arthur?_ What do want? Why are you calling me so early? Do you know what time it is?!"

Though Francis's last words were screamed, angrily so, Arthur took no notice of it. His fingers tightened on the phone's gleaming metal surface.

"We have a bit of a problem."

* * *

**French translations:**

**Bonjour: Hello/hi**

**pourquoi m'appelez-vous?: Why are you calling me?**

**SIDENOTE: "Magus" is the equivalent of "magic" in the Latin language.**


End file.
